


what a mess we’re making

by weisenbachfelded



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Baking, Christmas, M/M, happy xmas bud!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:54:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28342707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weisenbachfelded/pseuds/weisenbachfelded
Summary: So engrossed was he in icing his cookies, that Enjolras did not hear the key in the door, nor the door opening. He almost jumped out of his skin to hear Grantaire’s voice, irritated and a little amused.‘What the ever-lovingfuckhave you done to my kitchen?’ Grantaire exclaimed.Courf spun around, and then froze at the sight of Grantaire in the doorway. Icing dribbled from the nozzle of the piping bag and onto their foot.
Relationships: Combeferre/Courfeyrac (Les Misérables), Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 80





	what a mess we’re making

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LandlessBud](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LandlessBud/gifts).



> this is a gift for the wonderful bud! u must go and read all of their incredible writing they are landlessbud on here and they are the most incredible writer in the world.  
> this was so much fun to write! bud, i hope it lives up to everything you hoped for. thank u for ur friendship, ur support, and for blessing us all with ur writing. ily!!

Enjolras should have known, really, that any idea with its roots in Courfeyrac’s mind was destined to end in disaster somehow. 

Actually, he should have foreseen the aforementioned disaster the moment he got a text from Courf that read:

**coming to urs in 10 i’m bringing coffee and big christmas romance plans :))))))))**

Enjolras sighed, exasperated, and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. 

_10 minutes? What if I said I had work to do?_

**i’d say ur a liar**

**and even if u do i don’t care**

**see u in 10**

Enjolras cast a quick glance around his apartment - as if Courf even cared how messy it was. Combeferre was out at work already, and in the time since his leaving, Enjolras had somehow managed to leave a trail of mess in his wake. There were clothes on the sofa, dishes from his breakfast in the sink, and at least four half-empty coffee mugs strewn across the kitchen table, where he was sat with yet another mug next to him as he lazily worked on an essay not due until  
after the winter holiday. 

The door buzzer sounded, a grating, incessant noise that could only mean Courfeyrac had their finger pressed down on the buzzer. 

‘I’m coming, I’m coming!’ Enjolras said to the room at large, and opened the door to a beaming Courf holding two cups of coffee and with their elbow pressed against the buzzer. 

‘Enjolras!’ Courf exclaimed, and Enjolras breathed a sigh of relief as they lifted their elbow off of the buzzer. 

‘Hi, Courf,’ Enjolras replied, with decidedly less enthusiasm. 

Courfeyrac handed Enjolras one of the cups, and marched inside, throwing themself across the couch dramatically - and managing, somehow, to keep all of their coffee inside their cup. 

Enjolras took a sip of his coffee. Courf had evidently gotten the barista to put flavoured syrup in there, the way he liked, but was always too self-conscious to ask for whenever he was with anyone else but Courf.

Enjolras wondered, a little nervously, whether Courf had gone to the coffee shop down the road, where Grantaire worked - and, if so, whether Grantaire had been on a shift. Perhaps he had made the very coffee Enjolras was holding. He pushed that thought from his mind as he took another sip, trying desperately not to imagine Grantaire’s hands on the same cup his mouth was touching right at that moment. 

‘I have a plan,’ Courf said, disturbing Enjolras’ train of thought. They were gesturing with their hands, their coffee sloshing dangerously close to the top of their cup. 

‘I’m alright, thanks, Courf,’ Enjolras said, drily. ‘How are you?’

‘Don’t be sarcastic, Enjolras, it’s unattractive,’ Courf drawled, in what was, to their credit, an alarmingly accurate impersonation of Enjolras’ mother’s voice. 

‘Fine, fine,’ Enjolras conceded, ‘tell me the plan.’

‘Here’s the deal,’ Courf said, ‘I’m going to do something about Combeferre.’ 

‘Oh, really?’ Enjolras said, already with one eye on his essay. 

A couch cushion hit him square in the face - and narrowly missed his coffee, which he set hastily on the table. 

‘I really am this time!’ Courf pouted. 

‘Go on, then.’

‘The plan!’ 

‘The plan.’

‘It’s nearly Christmas,’ Courf started. 

‘You’re an atheist,’ Enjolras said, ‘and three of your four grandparents are Jewish.’ 

‘And that’s relevant because..?’

Enjolras opened his mouth, then closed it again. ‘Carry on, then.’ 

‘I am going to make Christmas cookies,’ Courf announced, proudly.

Enjolras could have screamed in frustration. ‘This still doesn’t sound like a plan, Courf,’ he said, in a dry monotone.

‘I’m going to bake Christmas cookies with Ferre,’ they beamed, ‘and it’s gonna be perfect and like a Hallmark movie and he’s gonna fall in love with me in a flurry of icing sugar!’ 

Enjolras simply stared at them. ‘You can’t possibly think that’s going to work,’ he said. 

‘I _know_ it’s going to work,’ Courf said, matter-of-factly. 

‘I - you - I feel like I need to supervise this, or something,’ Enjolras said. ‘It sounds downright dangerous.’

‘Oh, no, you’re gonna be there too,’ Courf said, as if this had been obvious from the get-go. 

‘I’m going to _what_?’

*

Enjolras wasn’t sure he’d ever found himself in a worse situation than this. After discovering that cookie-baking was already scheduled for that very same afternoon, Courfeyrac whisked him on a whirlwind trip to the grocery store. 

They sat at the kitchen table in Courfeyrac and Grantaire’s apartment, the ingredients laid out before them. Or, at least, Enjolras sat at the table - Courf was hopping from foot to foot around the kitchen as they waited nervously for Combeferre to arrive. 

Enjolras’ only hope had been that Grantaire might have been home - which he most certainly was not. He was correct in his earlier thinking that he was at work at the coffee shop a block or two away, which, honestly, was probably in his best interests, considering the fact that Courfeyrac, flour, raw eggs, an oven, and several tubes of food dye were about to hit an intersection like a horrific traffic accident. 

To say that Enjolras was anything less than disappointed not to see Grantaire was an outright lie. He had long since ceased to attempt to hide his crush on Grantaire, even if it did mean succumbing to Ferre and Courf’s incessant and merciless teasing. And Jehan’s. And Cosette’s. And even Marius’, sometimes, which, honestly, seemed a little bit rich coming from him. 

Okay, so maybe calling it a ‘crush’ was even a little bit of an understatement. 

Enjolras had been completely and utterly smitten with Grantaire since the moment he walked into an Amis meeting two and a half years previously, called Enjolras _the most charmingly stupid man he’d ever met_ and proceeded to decimate Enjolras’ case concerning student rent strikes in a few scornful words.

Enjolras had, of course, argued back, until the bar staff were nervously approaching him to inform him that other customers were complaining about his and Grantaire’s heated and noisy arguing. That didn’t make them stop, but after that, Amis meetings moved to one of the back rooms of a different student bar, where they had remained ever since. Grantaire and Enjolras’ arguments remained an integral part of the meetings, though, to everyone else’s mingled amusement and irritation. 

It wasn’t just the arguments that made Grantaire so attractive - far from it, in fact. Enjolras would always cite the time he visited Courf’s apartment to pick up a book, and Grantaire had opened the door shirtless, with a paintbrush tucked behind his ear and red and yellow paint splattered across his hands. He had informed him that no, Courf was not there, but he could come in anyway and grab the book if he wanted? Enjolras, to his utter shame, had practically stood and gaped. He was _gay_ , for god’s sake, he would later moan to a hysterical Courfeyrac. Grantaire was, in a word, jacked, because apparently, he danced _and_ boxed in his spare time, and also did Courfeyrac think it was normal that Enjolras was incredibly attracted to Grantaire’s hands when they were covered in paint like that? 

And then there had been the time he went to the local animal shelter - where he had gotten his cat, Pierre - only to find Grantaire there, feeding the cats with a chubby tabby perched on his shoulder, because he volunteered his Saturdays there. 

And not to mention the time that Enjolras had spotted Grantaire on the métro, playing a battered old guitar covered in stickers and singing a song that Enjolras didn’t recognise. His guitar case was open, with a lot of coins in it, and a little cardboard sign asking for donations for the animal shelter. When he asked, Ferre had told Enjolras that Grantaire did it most weekends, usually in aid of different local grassroots groups and mutual aid organisations, but that Enjolras shouldn’t go spreading it around because he liked to keep it quiet. What Enjolras hadn’t mentioned was the way he had flattened himself into an alcove at the very sight of Grantaire, and breathed through his nose until his head stopped spinning - but that none of that had gotten rid of the image of Grantaire’s head bent low over the guitar, or of his soft half-smile as he sung. 

So yes, Enjolras was, in a word, disappointed that the least he could have gotten out of this nightmare of a plan was a glimpse of Grantaire, and he wasn’t even going to get that. 

There was a gentle knock on the door, that caused Courf’s head to whip round like a rabbit caught in the headlights. Enjolras sighed, noisily, and didn’t stand up. Courf gulped, ran a hand through their curls, and rushed to the door, pausing for a moment to take a deep breath. 

When they opened the door, Combeferre was mid-deep breath, just as Courf had just been. It took everything Enjolras had not to roll his eyes. 

‘Hi, Ferre!’ Courf said, a little too excitedly. 

‘Hey, Courf,’ Ferre replied, and he sounded nervous. This was going to be a long afternoon. 

*

Surprisingly, it took relatively little time for the kitchen to be in utter disarray. Combeferre and Courfeyrac were in tears of laughter as they tried to ice the few cookies that had made it out of the oven without being burned to a crisp. Courf had put Christmas music on a little bit too loud. 

The first two batches of un-cooked cookie dough sat on the kitchen table, next to where Enjolras had retreated. Well, ‘dough’ was perhaps too strong of a word to describe either concoction. One was a pale yellow-ish liquid, with unsettling lumps of flour in it, and the other, when Enjolras poked it with a tentative fingertip, was almost rock-hard. It made him feel a little queasy. 

The air had a little of a haze of smoke to it, left over from the burning of the first few cookies. Enjolras’ ears were still ringing from the piercing scream of the fire alarm. Admittedly, it had been rather impressive the way that Courf had gotten the alarm to stop ringing so quickly just by standing on a chair and flapping a tea towel - and even more impressive the way that Combeferre had caught them when they inevitably fell off of the chair. The long moment they had spent staring into each others’ eyes afterwards had been more sickening than anything else, though. 

Most of the room was covered in a thin film of powdered sugar, and there were several splatters of food dye across various surfaces that Enjolras had the vague suspicion would leave some nasty stains. 

Enjolras watched in mild amusement as Combeferre leaned over Courf a little more than was necessary to get at the recipe book, which was covered in a thin film of flour. Courf looked up just as he did so, and they both stared at each other for a moment. Ferre’s glasses began to slide slowly down his nose. Very slowly, Courf reached up and pushed them back up. Ferre went a little cross-eyed trying to watch Courf’s finger as it moved. 

Ever the mood-killer, Enjolras cleared his throat noisily. The two jumped apart, Courf knocking their elbow against the counter and grabbing onto it in pain. 

‘You come and help decorate, Enj,’ Combeferre said sternly, hands on his hips. ‘Don’t just sit there and pout.’ 

Enjolras glowered, but dragged himself from his seat. Combeferre handed him a piping bag full of green icing - at least, green was the colour that it was closest to - and a plate of near-burned cookies that he thought were supposed to be shaped like Christmas trees. 

Combeferre and Courfeyrac, meanwhile, where both bending over a plate of snowflake-shaped cookies with a piping bag of white icing. They kept shouting things at each other, and then dissolving into laughter. When Enjolras cast a glance over at them, there was a lot of icing spread around them, and very little actually on the cookies. 

He ignored them, and set to icing his own cookies. His grip was feeble, and his hand unsteady, but he just about managed to pipe the outline of a very wonky Christmas tree onto the first cookie. He gave a small smile, pleased with himself, and moved onto the next. Soon, he had four green splodges, that weren’t quite Christmas trees, but were something close to it. 

It took a surprising amount of effort, icing cookies, he found. He leaned back, stretching his back out, and quickly tied his hair back into a messy bun with the hair tie on his wrist, then set back to icing. 

So engrossed was he in icing his cookies, that Enjolras did not hear the key in the door, nor the door opening. He almost jumped out of his skin to hear Grantaire’s voice, irritated and a little amused. 

‘What the ever-loving _fuck_ have you done to my kitchen?’ Grantaire exclaimed. 

Courf spun around, and then froze at the sight of Grantaire in the doorway. Icing dribbled from the nozzle of the piping bag and onto their foot. 

‘We’re making Christmas cookies?’ Courf said, tentatively.

‘You don’t celebrate Christmas,’ Grantaire deadpanned. 

‘Non-denominational winter holiday cookies?’ Courf tried. Grantaire scowled. 

In the silence, Shakin’ Stevens wished them all a merry Christmas. Courf smiled and waved a snowflake cookie at Grantaire, who grimaced at the sight. He muttered something under his breath, and then, finally, he stormed forward, swatting them all out of the way. He took the piping bag from Courf, and snatched the plate of snowflake cookies out from under him. 

‘Give it here,’ he said, ‘these might be inedible but they’ll at least look nice if I’ve got anything to do with it.’ 

‘Thanks, R!’ Courf said, cheerily.

‘You’re not off the hook,’ Grantaire said, not looking up from his icing, ‘and neither are you two. Ferre, I’m not surprised you put up with this shit seeing as you’re head over heels for Courf, but I expected better from you, Enjolras.’ 

Grantaire looked sideways at Enjolras, who felt himself blush bright red. There was a gleam in his eye that made Enjolras feel like they were on the same team, like he was included in this little joke about Courf and Ferre. 

What Grantaire had said seemed suddenly to sink in. 

Enjolras did not look away from Grantaire, but he heard the scene play out in excruciating detail. 

‘Courf - I don’t - he didn’t -’ Ferre tried, and Enjolras could practically hear him turning scarlet. 

‘You’re _head over heels_?’ Courf said, incredulously. 

‘I thought it was obvious.’ 

‘ _I’m_ the one who’s head over heels! For you!’ 

There was a long silence, and then the sound of the two of them crashing clumsily into each other. Enjolras allowed himself a quick glance up, to see Courf and Ferre joined at the mouth, already intwined with one another. 

Courf pulled himself away to speak, breathless and flushed. ‘We’re just gonna - uh -’ he said, as Ferre kissed eagerly at his neck. 

‘Go,’ Enjolras said, hurriedly, ‘just go.’ 

Courf grinned and gave him a thumbs-up, and together they tumbled out of the kitchen. Enjolras heard Courf’s bedroom door slam shut. 

‘Disgusting, aren’t they?’ Grantaire said, still icing. 

‘And it’s only gonna get worse,’ Enjolras said, darkly. He watched Grantaire as he iced - the muscles in his arms flexing, pulling his black t-shirt taut across his chest, his tongue poking out just a little from between his teeth as he concentrated, his dark curls falling in his face. How badly Enjolras wanted to lean forward and brush them out of the way, to run his fingers through them. When Grantaire looked sideways at him, just a glance, he was so certain that he knew exactly what he was thinking. He felt the very tips of his ears go red. 

Grantaire stood up straight, and looked at the cookies he had iced. They were intricately patterned, infinitely neat, and utterly more beautiful than anything Courf and Ferre deserved after what they had put the two of them through. 

‘How would you feel about leaving them to clear up?’ Enjolras asked, prompting a wicked grin to spread across Grantaire’s face. 

‘I’d feel pretty good about that,’ he replied. 

‘Good. Do you want to - uh - do you want to come back to mine?’ Enjolras asked clumsily, and narrowly avoided wincing at his own words. 

Grantaire tilted his head to one side, and then smiled his crooked smile that made Enjolras feel a little like his stomach had been tied in knots. ‘Sure, I’d like that,’ he said. ‘Hey, I could even show you how to make cookies properly.’ 

‘I’d like that,’ Enjolras said, with a smile. 

‘Cool,’ said Grantaire, ‘cool, cool. Okay.’ He began collecting up the remaining ingredients from the kitchen table, then also opened the cupboards to collect a few extras. He loaded them into a bag, and then disappeared into another room for a moment. He returned halfway through pulling on a sweater, a green knitted thing. His arms half above his head, his shirt had been pulled up a little, to reveal an inch or two of his stomach. Enjolras stared with a reckless sort of abandon, only narrowly catching his jaw before it dropped. 

‘Let’s go,’ Grantaire said, and together, they began to walk the few blocks to Enjolras and Combeferre’s apartment. 

* 

He was sat on the kitchen counter as Grantaire mixed cookie dough with an expert hand. He swung his legs a little as he sat, head tilted to one side. Every so often, Grantaire would look up, and their eyes would meet, and Enjolras would flush and look away, too afraid to wait and find out 

‘Where did you learn to ice cookies?’ Enjolras asked, a feeble attempt at conversation. 

That made Grantaire laugh, for some reason. ‘It’s basically the same as drawing,’ he said, with a shrug, ‘except with a piping bag.’ 

‘I think it’s cool,’ Enjolras said, and he knew it sounded stupid the minute he said it. 

‘Thanks,’ Grantaire said, and it sounded like he meant it. 

‘Hey, we haven’t had an argument yet,’ Enjolras pointed out. 

‘We don’t have to argue every time we see each other,’ Grantaire said, rolling the dough out flat. 

‘I know,’ Enjolras said airily. ‘’M just saying.’

‘Well,’ Grantaire said, ‘I have a response to your views on tax reform ready to go if you want to hear it.’ 

Enjolras laughed. ‘Any other time, I’d be desperate to hear it,’ he said.

Grantaire laughed as well, and set to cutting out the biscuits with a snowflake-shaped cutter.

‘Where are your baking trays?’ Grantaire asked. Enjolras pointed to a cupboard.

‘In there. At the back,’ he said. 

‘Apollo in light-wash jeans.’ Grantaire said, as he passed him, and let his fingertips run over Enjolras’ jeans, just above the knee. 

He said things like that a lot, passing, cryptic things that Enjolras didn’t always understand, but that he was always desperate to. 

‘These are my favourite jeans,’ Enjolras said, and he hated the way his voice came out low and nervous.

Grantaire smiled at that, and took a tray out from the cupboard, and set them on the counter next to Enjolras, so that he stood next to him as he loaded cookies onto the tray, Enjolras’ leg brushing against his side. 

When he had finished, he looked up, and suddenly their faces were closer together than either of them had anticipated. Neither moved, however, both waiting with baited breath for the other to do something, say something, anything. Grantaire’s gaze dropped momentarily to Enjolras’ mouth. 

And then, Grantaire blinked, several times, quickly, and looked away, and set about to putting the tray of cookies in the oven. He pressed a few buttons, setting the timer, and then straightened up again, dusting non-existent powdered sugar off his hands and looking around, anywhere but at Enjolras. 

Eventually, he stilled, and allowed his gaze to trail over to Enjolras once again. Enjolras could feel his heart hammering in his chest, as he stared back, quite unable to look away. Grantaire was so close, his mouth just slightly parted, his eyes wide and a little disbelieving. 

Enjolras, in a sudden rush of confidence, leaned forwards, his hands on Grantaire’s shoulders, and kissed him. 

It was not much of a kiss - closed-mouthed, shaking, uncertain - and he drew back almost as soon as their lips had touched. 

Grantaire was stood with his breath caught on an inhale, shocked and disbelieving. And then he laughed, breathy and joyous, and he put his hands on either side of Enjolras’ face and kissed him until Enjolras couldn’t breathe, until his lungs were burning and his head was spinning. 

Enjolras somehow got a hand around Grantaire’s back, and pulled him rather unceremoniously so that he was stood in between his legs. Grantaire eagerly obliged, pressing them together with a hand on Enjolras’ waist, one still tucked around his face, his thumb brushing gently over Enjolras’ jaw. Enjolras tilted his head so as to lean into Grantaire’s touch, allowing himself to become lost in the hold of the hands he had spent so long thinking about, _fantasising_ about - covered in paint, dancing over the fretboard of a guitar, gesticulating as he argued. 

Enjolras could feel Grantaire’s stubble grazing lightly against his jaw. It sent a thrill through him to think of the red mark that it might leave against his skin, a tiny reminder, later tonight, that this hadn’t, after all, been some figment of his over-active imagination.

Grantaire smiled against his mouth, and Enjolras sighed, which only served to make him smile more. Grantaire pulled away a little, and then pressed a series of tiny kisses to Enjolras’ mouth, which made him blush, and then to his cheekbone, where Enjolras knew the blush was spreading. Ever impatient, Enjolras reached a hand up to Grantaire’s face and guided it back towards his mouth. Grantaire hummed appreciatively, and kissed him, hard. Enjolras had to bite back a moan, and he pressed Grantaire closer to him, impatiently and desperately, suddenly uncaring as to what he might think of him. Grantaire kept doing _something_ with his tongue, and Enjolras wasn’t quite sure what it was, only that he was desperate that he keep doing it - preferably somewhere a little more comfortable than on the kitchen counter.

As if he had read his mind, Grantaire moved his hands to slip them just beneath Enjolras’ thighs, and then drew back, and quirked an eyebrow. Realising what it was that he was asking, Enjolras nodded a little too enthusiastically, and hooked his legs around Grantaire’s waist, letting himself be lifted into the air. 

Enjolras let out an honest-to-god giggle, and would have clapped a hand over his mouth were it not for Grantaire leaning in and swallowing the sound with a kiss. Enjolras melted into the kiss, and hardly noticed as Grantaire manoeuvred them out of the kitchen and into the sitting room. It made Enjolras feel dizzy to think of the ease with which Grantaire had lifted him into the air and held him firmly in place. He somehow sat down on the couch, letting Enjolras fall haphazardly on top of him. 

Desperate not to break their touch, Enjolras bracketed Grantaire’s legs with his knees, threaded his fingers into his hair, and kissed him with everything he had in him, pressing them together, certain that he was over-eager and inexperienced, but not caring in the slightest, so giddy with happiness and desire that all he wanted was to mould himself to Grantaire’s form, to make him  
feel even the slightest bit as good as he did. 

All of a sudden timer on the oven went off, a shrill beeping sound, and they broke apart. Enjolras could feel his cheeks heating up, as he smiled uncontrollably. 

‘I really like you,’ Enjolras said, and he felt suddenly very immature. 

Grantaire laughed, low and rough, and the sound made Enjolras’ chest ache. ‘I really like you, too, Enjolras,’ he said.

‘Maybe we were the clueless ones,’ Enjolras said.

‘More clueless than those two? I don’t fucking think so,’ Grantaire said. 

They both laughed at that, and Enjolras felt light and giddy, and so utterly in love that he wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. The oven continued to beep. 

‘I should go and get those before they burn,’ Grantaire said. Enjolras leaned in and kissed him once more, a long, messy, open-mouthed kiss that made Grantaire moan into him. Then, Enjolras pulled back, and climbed off of Grantaire’s lap. 

‘Yeah, you probably should,’ he said, and went into the kitchen. Grantaire made an indignant noise. Enjolras paused in the doorway to the kitchen, and turned to look over his shoulder. Grantaire was rubbing his temple with his fingers, biting his lip, and eyeing Enjolras appreciatively. Enjolras felt his heart thud against his chest in the knowledge that it was him that Grantaire was looking at, that it was him Grantaire wanted. He laughed, despite himself, and went into the kitchen, safe in the knowledge that Grantaire was right behind him.

**Author's Note:**

> i’m on tumblr @weisenbachfelded! say hi!  
> check out all of bud’s fics theyre amazing  
> and happy holidays to everyone who finds themselves here


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